


All Lovers Are Strangers At First

by obscure_affection



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character, background johnlock and mormor, but there is smut fear not, each chapter is pretty short, i should mention i do not have anyone to edit, if you would like to please tell me, or beta, or britt-pick, this was an early work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscure_affection/pseuds/obscure_affection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lust, love, cheap hotels, unanswered questions, expensive clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow & Cigarettes

Molly can’t help it. The tears come, burning slowly down her face.  
  
She’d been stupid to assume that Sherlock… Stupid, really, to assume anything about him. Just because he seemed distant and asexual didn’t mean he was; just because he seemed aloof, untouched and untouchable…  
  
Not her face.  
  
Stupid, naive Molly. Fuck.  
  
Brushing the tears aside, she turns onto her street. The snow is descending thick and fast, a glittering white cocoon that crunches under her feet. Only one other person has walked this way since the snow started- Molly can see their crisp footsteps in the falling snow. For some small amusement, she lets her feet fall into the holes already left by the walking stranger, leaving no new footprints of her own.  
  
Christmas will be spent alone. She won’t return to 221b.  
  
Coming to her gate (frozen metal, cold in her bare hand) she pauses.  
  
She hadn’t left the gate open, she was sure of it. Yet her it is, open wide, but she had closed it… Or had she? Had she even locked the door? The unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke wafts toward her, and she looks up, alarmed.  
  
Leaning against her front door is a dark silhouette, smoke curling from the cigarette held in a gloved hand.  
  
’Sherlock?’  
  
A womans laughter greets her, rich and amused.  
  
‘Guess again, Molly.’  
  
Her pulse speeds up, fear and adrenalin competing for dominance within her.   
  
‘Who are you?’  
  
‘Come up and ask me properly. We shouldn’t shout on the street, after all. Not on Christmas.’  
  
Molly hesitates.  
  
‘Come on, I won’t bite.’  
  
Blushing, she steps past her open gate, trying not to stumble as she comes face to face with the shadowed woman.  
  
Close up, she can see the dark red lips on pale skin. Eyes of unknown colour, glittering at her in the dark. Black hair, long polished nails.  
  
‘Who…How do you know where I live? Who are you?’  
  
The woman exhales smoke, letting it curl up into the air between them. Molly is reminded strongly of the first time she met Sherlock. Don’t think about Sherlock now, you idiot-  
  
‘You haven’t had a very nice night, have you, Molly? Sherlock is such a rude man, and nobody likes a dead body on Christmas…’  
  
Shock explodes through Mollys veins.   
  
‘How- how-‘  
  
‘Sherlock isn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve, Molly. But tell me, am I right?’  
  
‘Yes, but-‘  
  
A leather finger reaches out and presses itsself across Mollys lips. She is struck dumb, watching as the woman drops the finished cigarette into the snow and crushes it under her heel.  
  
‘Sorry to come and go like this Molly. I just had to be sure I was right.’  
  
The finger vanishes and Molly splutters, embarrassed. Without another word, the woman steps around her and begins to walk away.  
  
‘Wait- excuse me- but what the hell was that? Who are you?’  
  
Nothing. In a few moments, the woman is gone, leaving Molly alone in front of her own door. Against her will, another hot tear wells in her eye, running down her cheek and growing cold in the frigid air.  
  
Fumbling with her keys, she opens the door, turning her back on the rest of the world. Her cat (Toby, the best thing about coming home) rubs against her feet. But tonight she can take no joy in the warm fur purring at her ankles and toes.  
  
She had even dressed up for him-  
  
Almost sobbing in disgust (at herself, at him, at the world for sending that woman to her, at the way nothing adds up) she pulls at the dress, wishing she had never made an effort to be special to Sherlock. It rips loudly, and the noise sends a wave of satisfaction through her.  
  
But the nights surprises are not over.  
  
In her underwear (the dress ruined) Molly walks through her house, glad that the air is warm enough for her skin. Sitting on her small kitchen table is a bottle of wine.   
  
Very, very expensive wine. With a card.  
  
 _Sorry I couldn’t stay the night, don’t hold it against me._  
 _PS: you looked lovely in the dress_  
 _xxx_  
  
Molly can only stare, eyes wide.   
  
—-

At first, she thinks she will ask Sherlock to help her find the mystery woman. She tells herself it’s important they find her- she had broken into Mollys house and should be made to answer for it.   
  
However, each time she goes to ask Sherlock, she can’t.  
  
Was it the wine? Or the gloved finger on her lips? Or the fact she can keep a secret from Sherlock? Or the fact that she now has an interesting secret, and she doesn’t want Sherlock to ruin it?  
  
Molly isn’t sure, but she decides not telling Sherlock is the best idea.  
  
Time rolls on. Molly hears nothing new from the strange woman, and neither Sherlock nor John comment on the awkward Christmas party. She gets a haircut, buys a new dress to replace the one she (foolishly, she thinks now) ripped, and tries not to dwell on the past.  
  
Life is back to normal, really. She goes on a date, mostly because the man had the same high cheekbones as Sherlock. It doesn’t go very well, and Molly doesn’t really care. She blogs.  
  
Then, when she has almost forgotten about the strange woman, her personal Christmas ghost, she receives a text from an unknown number.  
  
 _Molly, do you remember the rather charming woman you met this past Christmas?_  
  
She looks at the text for a full five minutes. At first, her impulse to call Sherlock is strong. But, somehow… Somehow, this is hers.  
  
 _Yes. Why?_  
  
 _Be at home this Friday night, and you’ll find out._  
 _See you soon Molly._  
  
Something hot runs through Molly. Shock, excitement, fear, expectation, wonder, and a little bit of indignation. Why, exactly, does this woman think she will be free this Friday night?  
  
 _What if I can’t make it?_  
  
 _You will though. I’m sure of it._  
 _xxx_  
  
Molly exhales. It’s Friday in four days. 

 


	2. Complicated

Four days to go. 

In four days that mysterious woman will be in her house. Maybe. Probably? She has no idea what to expect. Or how she should feel.

Molly calls up work and gets Friday off. She decides to take the whole day off, because who knows what’ll happen? She images herself as a damsel in distress, or as John, being dragged around by Sherlock, into the unknown.

Three days to go.

Molly cleans the entire house. Even her bedroom, though she feels like an idiot for it. Each day she thinks up another possible reason for the mysterious visit. Each day she finds another reason to ask Sherlock for help. She knows she isn’t going to ask for his help.

Two days to go.

She can’t concentrate on anything for long periods of time. Often, she feels like texting the unknown number, asking for more details. What should I expect? What do I wear? Who are you? She tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter what she wears. Why should it? Too many questions.

One day to go.

Every time someone speaks to her, she jumps. Sherlock comes into her work for the first time in days, and she can’t even concentrate on him. He looks at her as if she has gone mad. Maybe she has. A petty part of her is pleased that Sherlock hasn’t worked out what has happened.

Friday.

She tries to sleep, but fails. Her stomach is tying knots, and the birds outside are making too much noise. Sitting up in bed, Toby comes to keep her company. He knows she is stressed, and his warmth is comforting on her lap, his fur think between her fingers. 

‘Todays the day, Toby.’

The cat merely looks at her, giving no comment.

Not wanting something to happen before she is dressed properly, she leaves the warm blankets and stands in her nightie, looking blankly into her wardrobe. Not knowing the nature of this visit makes it hard to know what to wear.

Jeans? Too casual. Skirt? Limits movement. Dress? Too formal.

Fuck.

In the end, she grabs an the most expensive, but most comfortable trousers she owns. A white shirt, buttoned up. Warm black jacket, and light lipstick. She keeps the lipstick in case Sherlock is right and it really does make her lips look better.

Time passes.

She begins to pace. Up and down the hall, until she is tired she sits down to blog. Molly can’t find the right words to say. For once in her life, something interesting is happening, and she can’t tell a soul. She tries to read a book, but it can’t hold her attention. Angry, she throws it aside. Then rushes to pick it up off the floor and put it back on the shelf.

At two in the evening she gets a text.

Not long now.

She goes into the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face. For one moment she seriously considers running away, just running while there is still time.  
But there is no time left. Not long could mean two hours or five minutes.

Then- at last-

The doorbell rings, and Molly feels all the blood in her body rush to her head. She has never felt so dizzy in her life. But she squares her shoulders, and opens the door. Ready for anything.

The woman is covered in blood.

‘Irene Adler. How wonderful to meet you in the daylight, Miss Hooper.’

Without any further words, Irene strides past Molly and into the house, leaving Molly to gape. Irene has left a large bag on the step, and Molly grabs it before closing the door fast. Again, she is reminded of Sherlock, but she shakes the thought away.

‘Is that blood?’

Irene looks down at herself. She is wearing a dark blue dress, so it’s hard to see the stains against the colour of the soft fabric, but Molly is sure. It’s blood. And not Irenes blood. 

‘Yes, I think it is. I’ll take a shower, and then we can chat. Ok?’  
‘Ok…’

Molly feels like she should demand to know whose blood it is. And what is going on. But is seems only polite to let the woman shower, the dress looks expensive, custom made maybe, from the way it hugs each curve perfectly.

Irene vanishes up the hallway, and Molly follows after.

She can see a trickle of blood oozing slowly down the inside of Irenes leg.

‘Bathroom is second door on the-‘

‘Yes, I know.’

Irene pauses and Molly runs into her, blushing at her own mediocrity. 

Then, right in front of her, Irene grabs her stained dress and takes it off. No warning. Molly staggers backwards, giving the other woman some personal space, and she could almost swear she hears Irene laugh.

She throws the dress on the floor, now dressed in only expensive looking lace underwear. Molly looks, then looks away. Irene seems utterly calm, turning back towards the bathroom. It’s hard not to look at the blood on her legs. Hard not to look at her legs.

‘Give that a wash for me, Molly darling?’

‘Ah…. sure.’

—-

Molly puts the dress in the wash. The blood is mostly dried, and what isn’t stained feels like silk. No doubt it cost a small fortune, and Molly realises Irene must be quite rich to treat it in such a casual manner.

She takes a seat in the living room, listening to the water run. It’s half an hour before Irene comes out, wrapped in Mollys towel. Unconcerned by her near total undress, Irene comes to join Molly in the living room.

‘I could grab you some clothes, if you, ah, want.’

Irene smiles. Her hair is wet and black, streaming down behind her. In the light, Molly sees that her eyes are a bright blue, and that she has high cheekbones cleverly contrasted with curved lips.

‘No, that’s fine Molly, really. I guess you must have been wondering what, exactly, this is all about.’

It isn’t a question and Molly doesn’t bother trying to deny it.

‘Yes. Well, obviously, I mean, this doesn’t exactly happen every day, so…’

‘So you want an explanation. Where would you like me to start?’

Molly has no idea where to start.

‘Well, whose blood was it?’

‘That,’ Irenes face doesn’t shift an inch. ‘Is none of your business.’ 

Feeling as if she’d been slapped, Molly opens and closes her mouth like a fish.

‘Another question perhaps, Molly.’

Irene doesn’t sound angry. Or worried. Part of Molly is very, very angry that this woman can charge into her life like this, then be rude to her in her own house.

‘Ok. How long are you staying?’

‘Oh, don’t take my answer personally. I’ll be staying a few weeks, I think.’

‘Will you, now?’

Molly knows her voice shakes, but she says it anyway. She isn’t a pushover. She isn’t going to be bullied by the almost-naked rich woman. This isn’t Sherlock, she tells herself.

‘Yes, Molly. I will.’

‘Why?’

‘Complicated. Don’t worry about it too much, nothing that effects you.’

‘Is this about Sherlock?’

The question slips past Mollys lips before she even knows it. For a wild moment she expects Irene to hit her, but nothing happens. Neither of them move. Under the table, Toby presses himself into her feet, a silent comfort.

‘What makes you say that, Miss Hooper?’

Irene has leant closer, her lips parted. Despite the fact Molly is fully clothed, she feels naked under the look Irene now gives her. She gets the distinct impression that Irene is not a woman to cross.

‘I just… it’s nothing really… you remind me of him.’

This seems to have been the right answer. Irene smiles, leans back, and the air returns to Mollys lungs.

‘I wouldn’t mention that to him, if I were you, Molly…’

‘So it is?’

‘Did I say that?’

Molly decides not to push the issue. If Irene is staying with her for a few weeks, they may as well not fight the whole time. She wonders if she has, in fact, gone insane. Any other person would protest.

‘So. Um. Why are you staying with me, in particular? I mean, you’re obviously rich, so you could go… somewhere else.’

‘So many questions so early in our acquaintance…I rather like it.’

Ignoring Mollys blush, Irene stands, walking to the kitchen and starting to go through the cupboards. Molly waits (and continues to wait) but Irene seems to have forgotten about her all together.

She could be Sherlocks long lost sister, Molly muses.

Resigning herself to being ignored for the rest of the night, Molly finds the book she’d thrown across the room previously and sits down to read it. Two hours pass without her even knowing it, but in the back of her head, the questions still pound. Demanding answers. If this woman really is anything like Sherlock, then the best way to get answers is to be… Well, clever.

If Irene really is staying for weeks, then Molly has enough time to get some proper answers. Even if the other woman is scary and rich, Molly won’t let that stop her. Somehow, she’ll get the answers.

‘I’m going to bed now, thank you for making up the spare room for me.’

Molly almost jumps out of her skin. Irene is right behind her, wearing an old dressing gown of Mollys and (Molly tries not to notice) nothing else.  
‘Ok, good, well, goodnight, Irene. It’s been interesting…’

Irene leans down so her lips are against Mollys ear. Molly freezes, not daring to look around.

‘Why you, Molly? It’s such a silly question, really… think about it. I’m sure you’ll get there in the end. Sweet dreams.’

With that, Irene vanishes as if she’d never been. It takes Mollys pulse an age to return to its normal speed.


	3. Just Jealous

Molly wakes up from a dream she can’t remember. For a second she relaxes into her pillow, watching the dust explore the early morning light as it seeps in through her bedroom window.  
  
Then she remembers that Irene Adler is in her house and she sits up so fast she falls out of the bed.  
  
‘Damn it…’ Molly is furious with herself, half-wrapped in her sheets and struggling to move into a more dignified position. Though not accident prone, she has never been much of a morning person. The transition from bed to world was something she’d never fully grasped.  
  
‘Need a hand?’  
  
Irene is standing at the door, looking down at her. She is holding a cup of coffee, and is still wearing the old dressing gown. And… yes, yes, she is still naked underneath it…Molly did not think the situation could get more embarrassing, but it has.    
  
‘I, no, I’m fine, just my morning exercise…’  
  
At this, Irene laughs, a rich and natural laugh that surprises Molly. The situation is so obviously ridiculous that Molly feels herself giggle through her mortification. With her free hand, Irene reaches down to Molly and pulls her to her feet.  
  
’Thanks…’ Molly has no idea where she is meant to look. The gown is tied loosely at Irenes waist, and Molly knows that if she looks, nothing will be left to the imagination.   
  
‘Do you ever wear clothes?’  
  
‘Does it bother you?’  
  
Irene raises an eyebrow, playing coy. Flushing, Molly shrugs. She has no idea if it bothers her or not, but she knows that it’s by far the most unexpected part of the womans arrival.   
  
‘What are you doing this fine Saturday, Miss Hooper?’  
  
‘Oh, well I have some paper work to catch up on,’ she hesitates. ‘And this man asked me on a second date, but I’m not going.’  
  
Irene leads them back to the living room, sitting and sipping at the coffee. Her hair is a dark nest, as if she had had a restless night. Somehow, it suits her. Molly gets the feeling Irene would suit anything, though. Having such good bone structure must be nice.  
  
‘So, you’re not going. Because of me, or because you don’t like him?’  
  
Molly opens her mouth-  
  
‘Both, then. Ok.’  
  
Molly closes her moth. Clearly Irene doesn’t need Molly to speak in order to have a conversation with her.   
  
‘You probably won’t tell me, but, what are you doing today…?’  
  
‘I’m going out with you.’  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Irene sips at the coffee again, legs crossed. Her toenails are the same bright red as her fingernails.   
  
‘What are we doing?’  
  
‘Shopping. I’ll get you some proper clothes. I’ve got a few personal items to get as well.’  
  
Knowing better to ask about the personal items, Molly just nods.  
  
After all, Irene has money and taste. Clothes shopping with her is bound to be… Well. Interesting.  
  
—-

Irene takes quite a while to get dressed.  
  
After smearing on some lip gloss, picking out a nice shirt and skirt, and pulling her hair into a low bun, Molly is ready to hit the shops. Irene, however, has not emerged from her room for some time, and Molly doesn’t dare go in.  
  
Eventually, Irene appears.  
  
Molly can’t help but gasp, the transformation from messy haired casual to high class polish is so profound.  
  
Black stockings, a tight white dress (Molly knows right away that, despite the fact it’s a short dress, it costs more than anything she owns) heels, lipstick to match her nails, and hair swept into a complicated but effective series of knots and rolls.  
  
‘You look…wow. You did all that in an hour and a half?’  
  
‘I’ve done it in forty minutes, not as hard as it looks.’  
  
Molly knows she will be driving, and doesn’t question Irene when she waits by the passenger door for her. The idea of anybody so posh getting behind the wheel, and in heels like that…  
  
They climb in and Molly turns on the radio. Irene turns it off. Frustrated, Molly turns it on again. With a sigh, Irene relents. Perhaps she realises she isn’t the most typical house guest.  
  
‘Where to?’  
  
The address makes Molly fidget a little. She is by no means poor, but this is the part of London where Kate Middleton shops. Or so she imagines.  
  
From the moment they walk through the glassy doors, Molly knows this is a whole other world. Here, the way Irene is dressed is the norm, and she receives curious looks from well dressed women and rich older men. She feels out of place, like a charity case, something for Irene to improve.  
  
And the looks Irene gets! Some people stare openly at her, and whispers erupt as they walk. It is exactly like being near Sherlock, in fact. She knows the feeling of walking beside somebody with a fearsome reputation.   
  
Half-jogging to keep up with the taller woman, she feels shame and confusion battle within her. With perfect timing, Irene turns, leading them into a large shop filled with expensive clothes.  
  
Glad to escape the staring, Molly relaxes a little bit once inside. Everything here is well-cut, tasteful without being dull, and no doubt a million billion dollars. She waits by the entrance (trying to vanish into the wall) as Irene gives the shop clerk directions. Clearly, the clerk knows who she is, because he bows a little and blushes red as Irene speaks. Is she famous?  
  
‘Molly, stop hiding and come over!’  
  
Not wanting to cause a scene, she complies, following Irene over the the change rooms. Unlike her local shops, these changing rooms contain leather arm chairs and polished, back-lit mirrors.  
  
Irene is holding an armful of fabric, and hands it all to Molly once she is within reach. For a full five seconds, Molly stands, not understanding.  
  
‘Wait- these are for me?’  
  
‘Yes, obviously, didn’t I say I was going to get you some proper clothes? Now try them on.’  
  
‘But- these are so expensive!’  
  
The clerk laughs and Irene throws him such a filthy look he recoils, and returns to his desk. He looks all of seventeen.  
  
‘This is by far one of the cheaper shops here, Molly. Consider it a thankyou for putting up with me.’  
  
Something about the glint in Irenes eye tells Molly that resistance is futile. Without  another word, she steps into the change room. As usual, she avoids looking at the mirror, just grabbing the first thing she sees and trying to haul it on.  
  
Within seconds, she is stuck within a series of straps, her arms caught in awkward angles. For a few moments she fights the fabric, silent and humiliated.  
‘Irene- I think I’m stuck-‘  
  
The door opens and Irene can’t help but smile at the mess Molly has made of the dress. It isn’t a cold smile though, and Molly is glad.  
  
‘Here…’ Irene closes the door and holds one of Mollys arms in place, pulling the fabric around her elbow and releasing the strap from her shoulder and neck. At this point, Molly becomes painfully aware that Irene can see her awful old bra.   
  
‘See, it’s got straps around the back and front, you’ve put it on backwards and you’ve gotten all tied up…Molly?’  
  
Molly can’t stop the tears from welling, but with great personal effort, she contains them to her eyes. The shame she feels is almost too much. She can’t even put on clothes, it seems, without making a fool of herself.  
  
‘Do you not like the dress?’  
  
‘Why did you- why did you bring me here?’  
  
‘To shop-‘  
  
‘But why here! It’s all fancy and I’m all-‘  
  
Irene grabs her by the chin, nails digging into her skin with force. At once, Molly forgets the end of her sentence, trapped within the glare Irene is giving her. She feels almost weak at the knees.  
  
‘Do you know what I do for a living, Molly?’  
  
Unable to speak, Molly merely shakes her head.  
  
‘I’m a dominatrix. I cater to the sexual whims of the pathetic, as some might say. Those people whisper about me because they think I am lesser, some common slut. In some circles, I am looked down upon too. Those boring rich idiots look at me like I will strip naked at any moment. But I don’t let that shit get to me and I’ll be damned if those snobs get to you. Understand?’  
  
Heart hammering, mouth dry, Molly nods. Slowly, Irene releases her vice-like grip, letting Molly look away from her glare. A dominatrix living in her house. Who on earth did she sleep with to end up this rich? The entire royal family? She’d never even heard of Irene Adler. Molly decides to do a search on her once she is home, just to be sure of the facts.  
  
Irene says nothing more, only picks at the dress, which is still caught around Mollys ribs. Understanding, but blushing nonetheless, Molly raises her arms so Irene can slip it over her body properly. The dress is black and purple, with straps across the cleavage and then down the back, revealing her shoulder blades and waist.  
  
‘Look at yourself.’  
  
Shy, Molly looks into the mirror. She hardly recognises what she sees. No longer an awkward woman who never really embraced anything about her appearance. She is…different now.  
  
Irene smiles, still standing behind her. Silent, she reaches and begins to undo Mollys bun, threading her hands through Mollys hair as it tumbles down her back.   
  
Dominatrix. Molly feels goosebumps rise on her skin. Did Irene notice? She probably did- this is what she is paid to notice-  
  
‘Don’t let those snobs get to you,’ Irene repeats, watching Mollys face in the reflection. ‘They're just jealous, after all.’  
  
‘Jealous?’  
  
Irene smirks, and Molly is shocked by the sudden arousal that burns within her. As if knowing this, Irenes hands are now on Mollys waist, nails running across her stomach.  
  
‘Jealous of your wonderful curves, obviously…’  
  
Molly leans back into Irenes touch. Why, she doesn’t know. Her mind has stopped working. This is uncharted territory.  
   
‘Sherlock always said I had really small breasts…’  
  
Irene exhales in obvious displeasure, hands slowly running up to squeeze Mollys breasts through the fabric of the dress. A slow, throbbing lust has started between Mollys thighs.  
  
‘Well, Sherlock obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about, does he…’  
  
The words are whispered, and Molly can’t stand another second of it-  
  
The clerk knocks on the door, loudly, and Molly jumps. Slowly, Irene releases her, turning to open the door. The young clerk is very red and twisting his hands together.  
  
‘Yes?’  
  
‘Will you be getting those dresses then, Ms Adler? Only we got other customers needing the room now…’  
  
‘Yes, yes. We’ll take them all.’  
  
Without a backward glance, Irene follows the clerk towards the register, leaving Molly to wonder what on earth had just happened. 


	4. Lingerie

Molly and Irenes shopping trip lasts a total of four hours. By the time they return to the car, Molly is exhausted. The back of the car is filled with bags, most containing her new clothes. She doesn’t even want to imagine how much money Irene has spent on her.  
  
Almost in a daze, Molly drives them home. Irene is texting someone, the gold and leather phone catching Mollys attention even though her daze of tiredness.  
  
‘Nice phone.’  
  
‘Easily my most important possession.’    
  
Molly is too tired to think up a reply, and Irene obviously isn’t going to bother with small talk. The moment they are parked, Molly lets herself slump onto the steering wheel. Maybe just a little nap…?  
  
Irene gets out of the car and starts to unpack the bags. She obviously already has her own set of keys, because she has no problem unlocking the front door, taking the various bags inside with her. In a small part of her brain- the part not consumed with exhaustion- she wonders how Irene got keys to her home.  
  
So tired. Who spends four hours shopping?  
  
‘Come on, Molly.’ Irene is standing by the car now, watching her. ‘Get up, come on. You can sleep inside.’  
  
Even though she knows she needs to move, stand up and get to her bed, she can’t make her limbs understand it.  
  
‘Molly…’ Irene sounds exasperated now, one hand on her hip as she watches. ‘If you come in, I’ll give you a massage.’  
  
Suddenly, Molly is much more awake. Fear and expectation penetrate her exhaustion, and she sits up, slowly. Does she want a massage? Is massage some sort of dominatrix code? Wasn’t she straight? The last questions almost makes her giggle. It hardly seems to matter now.  
  
Irene takes off her seat belt and pulls her out of the car, holding her hand firmly as she leads Molly back towards the house. Once she’s on her feet, she feels far more alert, but can’t bring herself to let go of Irenes hand.  
  
Her living room is small but comfortable, and upon return to reality, she can’t help but feel that it would be best to decline Irenes offer. This isn’t a posh shopping centre, but her own small little house, hardly glamorous.   
  
‘I’ll just go to bed, then, thanks so much for everything, though…’  
  
‘Nonsense. You need to relax properly.’  
  
‘No, really, I’ll uh…’  
  
Irene is pulling her toward her bedroom, and again Molly remembers the feeling of Irenes hands against her stomach, in her hair, on her breasts.   
  
They reach the bed, and Molly finds herself blushing and hesitating. Irene is having no such problem, and with sure hands she pulls Mollys shirt away. Molly knows her nipples are hard, and it’ll be obvious through her bra, but Irene makes no comment on them.  
  
‘Lie down on your stomach.’  
  
Falling onto her bed, Molly lets out a sigh of satisfaction. Her muscles still ache from hours of walking, carrying, trying on clothes.  
  
Irene straddles her, and the feeling of Irenes curved thighs gripping her hips is unexpectedly comforting. The warm weight of the other woman gives Molly a slow rush, and she smiles into her pillow.  
  
‘Now, just relax for me…’  
  
Irenes hands begin to explore the muscles of her back. She starts low, rubbing her warm fingers into the flesh of Mollys hips. Making circles. Strong fingertips tracing the arch of her spine, then the polished nails running lightly down her back, making Molly shiver. The skin on Irenes palms is smooth, kneading at the knotted muscles in her back, pressing into the sensitive skin behind her shoulder blades.  
  
Molly lets out a satisfied moan, eyes closing. The world is dark and sinking beneath her, warm fingers on her waist and sleep reaching up for her.   
  
—-  
  
When Molly wakes up this time, she doesn’t fall out of the bed. For a few moment she can almost feel Irenes hands on her skin. But Irene has been gone for a few hours now, and Molly is alone half naked in the sheets. For a moment, she considers having a sexual identity crisis. She’d always been curious, and had been content to let the curiosity go on, unexplored. Now, however…  
  
Molly reminds herself to remain calm. Reminds herself that nothing has happened yet, not really, and that this strange situation is still under way. No point, she decides, in working herself up yet.  
  
Clearly, Irene has gone out. A feeling of quiet exists in every room. Molly can’t decide if it’s peaceful or lonely.  
  
Deciding to make the most of her time, she starts up her computer. For a few minutes she considers posting something on her blog, but she can’t think of anything to say. As usual.  
  
Maybe…  
  
Remembering her previous thought, Molly searches Irene Adler.  
  
She has her own site. The pictures are… demonstrative. Nudity is obviously something Irene is far more comfortable with than Molly had previously thought. A twitter… not updated recently… newspaper articles, talk of politicians, famed authors, all caught up in the Adler web of sex and scandal… She even turns up on Johns blog, but the details are vague. Clearly whatever happened was top secret. Curiosity burns at Molly, but she knows better than to send John a text. That would only start trouble.  
In some of the photos, Irene seen with a rather stunning red haired woman. The caption reads  _‘Dominatrix Adler and her assistant Kate.’_  
  
The photo is months old, but it makes Molly think. If Irene had an assistant then, what happened to her?  
  
—-  
  
Irene doesn’t turn up that night. Clearly whatever personal business she has is keeping her out of the house, and away from her phone. Molly tires not to imagine what Irene might being doing that means she can’t at least text her.  
  
To distract herself from these scandalous thoughts, she begins to go through the clothes Irene brought her.   
  
Many dresses, in almost every colour (no yellow or orange) a few skirts (one is leather with a slit up the back, and it makes Molly blush just looking at it) and… and… oh god.  
  
Irene brought her underwear. Except ‘underwear’ is a bad way of putting it. Lingerie is a far more accurate description of the semi-transparent lace bra and matching underpants. And garter belt. Oh lord.  
  
Was this a hint? Or was this so normal for Irene that she didn’t even think twice about getting sexy underwear? It is nothing like the flesh coloured bra Molly normally wore. It is even racier than her ‘sexy’ bras- her own attempts at erotic clothing (bras with lacy pink hearts) look feeble now.  
  
It would be such a waste to not at least try it on though… just in case it didn’t fit…  
  
It fits. Irene must have been paying a lot of attention, because no man has ever been able to guess her bra size after just one grope. Looking at herself in the mirror, Molly can’t decide if she looks sexy or stupid. Somehow the lace makes her look unlike herself. Or maybe she can still feel Irenes hands on her skin, changing the shape of her. Molly strikes a pose, pouting her lips. Then blushes. Then, she has an idea…  
  
If Irene can take naughty photos, so can Molly. She won’t be uploading them to the internet any time now, but why not? Just for fun.  
   
Grabbing her phone, Molly puts on the timer. As the camera snaps, she poses, shy. One leg turned in, her arms by her side. Then arms lifted behind her head, face turned to away. Lastly, leaning forward to stare right at the camera.  
  
The results are…interesting.  
  
Molly looks the photos for a long time, wondering if this is how she always looks. Plump breasts and pink nipples standing to attention, shadows falling across her face, dark eyes, an air of mystery as the lace clings to her skin.  
  
She feels like she has seen herself for the first time. 


	5. Predicting The Future

Monday, and back to work for Molly Hooper.  
  
Returning to work felt strange now. Irene had not re-appeared and Molly was trying hard not to worry. Was this normal? She didn’t know.   
  
She had decided to wear some of her new clothes to work. Just a new shirt and pants, far more expensive than normal but nothing flashy. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself, to be asked unwanted questions. She relished the feeling of the fabric against her skin, silently thanking Irene. It feels like having a delicious secret, wearing these expensive clothes, knowing she has lingerie and a dominatrix waiting at home.  
  
Lunchtime came, and so did Sherlock.  
  
He barged in, collar up, eyes ripping the room to pieces, knowing everything. Molly feels her skin heat up, but tries to pretend she hasn’t noticed his dramatic entrance. She knows he’ll be coming to find her, coming to bribe her into seeing a fresh body.  
  
‘Molly! Ah….ah.’  
  
Sherlock comes to a stop, openly staring at her clothing.   
  
‘How did you get those clothes? You aren’t nearly rich enough.’  
  
John winces behind Sherlock, looking awkward for her.  
  
‘Did someone buy them for you? A man? But you’re not dating a man. Rich friend or relative? But you wouldn’t let just anyone spend this money on you…’  
  
His voice fades out and Molly watches him fail to understand. Clearly, the thought that Irene Adler is living with her has not even crossed his brilliant mind.  
  
‘Did you want something?’  
  
At her question, Sherlock snaps back into the moment, eyes fevered.  
  
‘Yes, yes! New body, should be on your list, name James Canterwell.’  
  
‘Yes, he’s on my list…’  
  
Her clothes forgotten (for the moment) Sherlock beams at her as she leads the way down towards the morgue.  
  
—-  
  
Returning home (tired, but satisfied with the day) she is glad to hear that Irene has returned. The shower is running, and a large coat has been thrown over the kitchen table. She is pleased to see that this time, it isn’t covered in blood.  
  
‘No blood this time, Irene?’ she calls through the door.  
  
‘No, but I’ll do better next time.’  
  
Molly smirks, and makes herself a coffee while she waits for Irene to emerge.  
  
It takes another ten minutes, but Irene arrives, beads of water running down her pale skin. She is once again naked but for the towel. It is distracting Molly, and she takes a sip of coffee to cover her reaction.  
  
‘Good day, Molly?’  
  
‘Yeah, ok… I looked you up.’  
  
Irene raises an eyebrow, her face closing off a little. Becoming mask-like.  
  
‘Find anything interesting?’  
  
‘Found your website. Interesting. And, you’ve been in the paper a few times… you cause a fair bit of trouble.’  
  
‘I misbehave.’  
  
Molly finds she can’t meet Irenes eyes.   
  
They sit in silence for a little while. Toby leaps up onto the table between them, and Irene reaches out to rub him between the ears.  
  
‘I saw Sherlock today… he wanted to know where I got the clothes from.’  
  
‘Ah…’ Irene smiles. ‘And did you tell him?’  
  
‘No.’  
  
‘Have you told anyone I’m here?’  
  
‘Should I have?’  
  
Irene refuses to let her look away this time, her blue eyes holding Molly in thrall.  
  
‘No. I’m glad it’s just us.’  
  
Molly nods, still staring at Irene. She knows she must be going pink, but she won’t let herself turn into another blushing idiot around Irene. It has occurred to her that Irene must be used to people blushing and hesitating around her, and Molly doesn’t want to be like that.   
  
‘What are you doing tonight, Molly?’  
  
‘Nothing. I mean normally I’d watch some telly and maybe blog, might call up a friend or something, but on a Monday, really, nothing I guess. Why?’  
She may have blabbered. Had she shared too much?  
  
‘Good. Not busy then. You’ll be coming out with me tonight.’  
  
‘Ah…ok.’  
  
Molly feels excitement explode in her stomach. Even though she shouldn’t really be going out on a Monday night, she wants to. Breaking the rules, she finds, is fun. It feels like an adventure. It feels like something Molly Hooper wouldn’t do.  
  
‘And wear something sexy, ok?’  
  
Molly nods.  
  
—-

The club is fairly empty, but after all, it is a Monday night. The walls are made of some kind of semi-transparent glitter, and the various small stages have velvet curtains.  
On each stage stands a dancing, mostly naked individual. Men, women, of all races and shapes. Molly knew almost nothing about strippers, but she had always assumed them to be skinny blonde women.    
  
‘Its…very…um, different to what I expected.’  
  
Irene leads her to a small table. The closest stage contains a smiling Thai woman covered in tattoos, dancing in time to a fast beat. Molly can’t help but stare a little at the womans tattoos- they seem to move with her, changing shape across her skin.  
  
‘I like different. This place owes me a favour or two, so we can drink for free.’  
  
With this, Irene raises a hand, a demure waiter coming and handing them both drinks. Without a word, he retreats.   
  
‘A favour or two?’  
  
‘I started out here,’ Irene looks over at the dancing woman, eyes distant. Her hair is smooth, slightly curled around her face. It catches the light, contains a multitude of colours.  
  
‘Started out…being a dominatrix?’  
  
‘Basically. It was a rather convoluted journey, as you might imagine, but this would be the starting point. That was my stage.’  
  
Irene nods towards the stage by their table, and the dancer winks at them. Hastily, Molly tuns away, taking a sip of her drink. It tastes amazing. Like a chocolate banana vodka. Part of her mind is trying to imagine Irene here, half naked and dancing for strangers.   
  
‘This is a good drink…’  
  
‘Yes, quite strong, isn’t it?’  
  
‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’  
  
With a small yelp, Molly realises that Irenes foot (contained within expensive stockings) is creeping up her calf.  
  
‘Molly, would I even need to get you drunk? I don’t think so.’  
  
Not trusting her voice, Molly takes another sip. A much larger sip than last time, trying to ignore the way Irenes toes have rubbed circles into her leg.  
  
She gets through the first drink in five minutes, and seeing this, Irene downs her own in a single movement, motioning for the waiter to bring them another round. Molly tells herself only one more. She has work. It’s a Monday, after all. She isn’t going to get drunk.   
  
These drinks are strong. Irene has wrapped both her feet around Mollys ankle, holding her close.  
  
Three drinks later, Molly finds herself giggling as Irene holds her palm up over the table.  
  
‘You c-can’t really read palms can you…?’  
  
‘Of course I can. I have many skills, Molly.’  
  
‘I’ll bet…’  
  
Irene grins at her and Molly grins back, unabashed.   
  
‘So, w-what exactly do you do? All whips and chains and tying up the queen or something?’  
  
Irene laughs.  
  
‘Not far from the truth, Molly, I must admit. Though not the queen. I’d much rather the princess…’  
  
‘You didn’t!’   
  
‘I did.’  
  
Molly gasps, then collapses into a fit of giggles. Half-slumped on the table, the room starting to move around her in slow circles, and she laughs and laughs.   
‘It doesn’t take you much to get drunk, does it?’  
  
‘Not drunk.’  
  
‘Yes, you are.’  
  
Irene takes a sip of her own drink, watching Molly empty hers. She is glad the place is near-empty, otherwise they would have no doubt been getting many angry looks.   
‘Give me your hand back, I never got to tell you the future…’  
  
Molly passes herself over to Irene, who takes her hand and holds it up to the light. Apart from anything else, it means Molly won’t be able to down another drink. Shuddering at the soft scrape of Irenes nails on her palm, Molly watches transfixed as Irene traces the creases in her skin.  
  
‘I see a quiet girl… did well in school. A few friends, a few crushes. Nothing serious. Studied hard, am I right? You had life all planned out and it was going well…’  
Molly nods, breathing shallow.  
  
‘You had life all mapped out. Good job. Meet a nice man. Kids, eventually. Nothing out of the normal path. Until…here.’  
  
Irene runs a nail down the middle of Mollys palm, leaving a mark behind.  
  
‘What happened there?’  
  
‘Hmmm,’ Irene tilts her hand, throwing it into the light even more. ‘You met someone, a man. You love him, or you did love him. Did. But he messed up all your plans because he wasn’t normal and he didn’t love you back.’  
  
At this, Molly feels her sober self return. She tries to jerk her hand away from Irene, wanting the game to be over. But she can’t, her reflexes are too slow, and Irene is holding on tight.  
  
‘Now now, I’m not finished yet… this man, he messed up the plan. All of a sudden you are uncertain. There are gaps in the future. A multitude of paths, of dreams, of thoughts… And through one of these gaps comes an unexpected visitor one Christmas night…’  
  
‘You’re just telling me the past.’  
  
Irene releases Mollys hand, and instead cups her face. A soft thumb runs down her cheek, and Molly blushes red, wishing she hadn’t drunk so much.  
‘So I’ll tell you the future now, then. When you get home, you’re going to kiss that mysterious stranger right on the lips.’  
  
Molly swallows hard, mesmerised by Irenes eyes. She feels like an animal stuck in the headlights of a car, unable to escape the oncoming destruction.  
  
—-  
  
They get a taxi home, and Molly knows she is in no state to complain. She leans on Irenes arm as they leave the club. Her short dark red dress does nothing to ward off the cold London night, and she lets herself curl into Irenes arms, shivering.  
  
‘I should have told you to bring a coat…’  
  
‘Its okay…I’m f-f-fine…’  
  
Irene tuts, pulls her into the taxi and holds her close. Relaxing into the warm, Molly hums in a happy kind of way, grabbing hold of a fold in Irenes dress for support. The ride passes in the warm breathing of Irene, and the orange glow of shop lights as they evaporate outside the taxi window.  
  
When they arrive, it is past one in the morning. Molly fumbles with the keys and Irene watches with eyebrows raised. Their breath hangs white in the air, and Molly is glad her house retains warmth.  
  
They stumble into the kitchen together, not bothering to turn on the lights. Molly is unsteady on her heels, and they clunk loudly on her floor. Standing together in the dark, Molly looks at the outline of Irene. She is so much like Sherlock.   
  
But.  
Better.  
  
She reaches for the outline, and it comes to her, Irene warm under her fingers. She can feel the alcohol buzzing through her, an it makes her cling to Irene, needing the balance.  
  
‘I guess you can predict the future.’  
  
Molly leans up and presses her lips onto Irenes, letting them linger for one perfect moment. She isn’t going to have a sexual identity crisis after all.  
  
Then the world fades to black. 


	6. Get To Know Me

Another day begins.   
  
This time, Molly takes no delight in the morning sun. It seems to be attempting burn her alive. Groaning, she rolls over, throwing the blankets over her head in a vain attempt to ward of the scorching rays of light.  
  
Slowly, the night comes back to her.  
  
A mostly naked tattoed woman in a club. Irene, with such beautiful hair, rubbing her leg, fingers tracing her hand. Predicting the future. A hazy cab ride. Lips against her- then nothing.  
  
Lips on hers. Soft, female lips, red lipstick in the dark.  
   
She’d kissed Irene. And Irene had seen it coming.  
  
Molly tries to bury herself in the bed, her stomach churning. She has never wanted to go to work less in her life.  
  
\---  
  
As she’d predicted, her day sucks. She spills hot coffee on a co-worker, gets the name of a dead man wrong in front of the grieving wife, and the whole time her head aches.  
  
It isn’t so much the hangover, but the stress. Irene had not been there in the morning, but she will be back. They will have to talk about what happened. Molly has no idea what she is going to say. Part of her insists she won’t have to say anything; Irene might already have the whole situation worked out.  
  
Lunchtime arrives and she sits down, exhausted. Picking at her food, she doesn’t even notice at first when her ex sits down opposite her.  
  
‘Jim! You surprised me!’  
  
Jim smiles, dark eyes charming. He has gotten his ear pierced since they last spoke. No doubt Sherlock would laugh at her for ever assuming him straight.   
  
‘You look awful Molly babe, no offence. Are you hungover?’  
  
She winces. That obvious?  
  
‘Yeah. Weird few days I guess.’  
  
Jim is looking at her as though he’d never seen her before. Clearly, he had never imagined the good and kind Molly would do something so unwise as to get drunk on a Monday night.  
  
They spend the rest of lunch chatting about nothing, and when Jim stands to leave  he grins at her like they share a secret.  
  
—-  
  
Just do it, Molly. Walk in. Face the music. What’s the worst that could happen? Don’t answer that. Just walk in.  
  
Inhale. Key in the door. Turn the key, open the door. One step after another. Exhale. Good. Good.  
  
‘Molly? I’m in the living room, come join me.’  
  
Fuck.  
  
Irene is sitting on the lounge, watching the news. It’s muted, so she can’t have been watching that closely. She is wearing one of Mollys old shirts, which is so long now it doubles as a tatty kind of dress.  
  
‘You’re wearing my shirt.’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Molly decides not to question it, and sits at the other end of the lounge.   
  
‘I kissed you.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Irene smiles at kindly, clearly trying not to scare Molly away. ‘Is that a problem?’  
  
‘I hardly know you.’  
  
Molly lets the words fall out between them. Its true and she has to make Irene understand. Silence, as Irene looks at the words Molly has given her.  
  
‘What do you want to know, Molly? I don’t have a simple life. You can’t know everything, and it might he bad for you if you did.’  
  
Irenes voice is cold and Molly feels her heart sink. What’s the worst that could happen? This.  
  
‘Well. We could start of small? Like, um, whose blood that was, when you first arrived?’  
  
Molly waits for Irene to shout at her, or to leave. Neither happens, and she looks up. To her horror, there are tears in Irenes eyes. They do not fall (she could not imagine Irene crying) but she can see them, no doubt.  
  
‘A good friend of mine died. Shot down, as a warning to me.’  
  
A wave of shame overcomes Molly. She had not thought this would upset Irene so much- she should not have pried- but Irene had seemed so happy when she’d arrived a few days ago. She had not been in mourning, had shown no outward sign of being upset. Molly had assumed Irene had been in a fight (and won) not lost somebody she cared for. Again, Molly hates herself for assuming.  
  
‘I… didn’t know. I’m so sorry.’  
  
‘How would you have known? I don’t let people know, Molly.’  
  
‘What was her, his, name?’  
  
‘Kate.’  
  
Understanding floods Molly. Her assistant. The sexy one with the red hair.  
  
‘Were you two…?’  
  
Molly lets the question hang. Naturally, they were not an item. At least not in any conventional way. Assistant and dominatrix. But there can be no doubt they cared for each other. It’s written in Irenes eyes.  
  
‘Yes. Well, as much as I can be involved with anybody.’  
  
‘Why was she… why did she die?’  
  
‘I told you, a warning.’   
  
Clearly, Molly isn’t going to understand that warning for a while yet. Slowly, she reaches out for Irene, letting their hands find each other and curl together. Already the tears have vanished from Irenes eyes, and she looks at Molly with her chin high, eyes defiant. Fighting the pain.  
  
‘Kissing me isn’t always a very wise thing to do, Molly.’  
  
‘But you knew I’d do it. You knew I loved Sherlock, too. You know all about me. And I don’t know anything about you really but…I’d like to. Get to know you. Even if it’s not safe. I don’t care about that so much these days.’  
  
Irene watches her, as if trying to catch her in a lie. Clearly, she can’t find any lies, so she leans forward, closing the space between them until their noses touch. So close, Molly can see Irenes dark pupils, feel warm breath on her mouth.  
  
‘Get to know me then,’ Irene murmurs, and Molly feels time slow.  
  
They kiss, and kissing Irene sober is far more enjoyable than she could have predicted. Their lips press, then part. She can smell Irene now, the expensive shampoo, silk and something more animal, something wild.  
  
Molly parts her lips, groaning as Irene pushes against her, opening her mouth, exploring. Their tongues meet and it sends a shock through Molly, feeling the way Irenes mouth pulls her close. She hadn’t even realised she’d moved her whole body across the lounge, but she must have, because Irene is holding her face, fingers slide up her thigh and she shakes. Shakes.  
  
Her hands reach up as Irene pushes her down. She finds the smooth skin of Irenes legs, and Irenes soft hair is falling around Mollys face like a dark curtain. They brake apart for a moment, Irene positioning herself on top of Molly properly now, their bodies pressed together.  
  
The feel of Irenes breasts pressed firmly against her own is intoxicating, and Molly leans up for another kiss, aching for it. They meet, all wet lips, heated limbs. Her pulse is running wild.  
  
‘Fuck, Irene…’  
  
She can feel Irene tugging at her shirt, trying and failing to pull it off.   
  
‘Here- let me-‘  
  
Molly pulls the shirt over herself, throwing it aside as Irene begins to kiss her deeper. Biting on her bottom lip, leaning down to kiss her neck, and Molly has never wanted anything more so she arches up, feeling her nipples harden as Irene nibbles them through her bra.   
  
Mollys own hands run up the back of Irenes thighs, coming to rest on the other womans arse. She squeezes, and Irene lets out a low laugh of appreciation, grinding down into Mollys hips. Molly feels wet heat inside her underpants, knows Irene could do anything, anything, and she would say yes.  
  
Her bra is removed with casual expertise, Irenes lips going right to Mollys tight nipples. The world goes black around her as Irene sucks on her nipple, bites it gently, her tongue massaging into her.   
  
‘Irene, please, I… I…’  
  
Words slur in her mind. She has no idea what she’s saying.  
  
Then, something awful happens.  
  
With a deep intake of air, Irene leans back, her hair and make-up a mess. She is breathing hard, a bite mark visible on her neck. Molly can’t even remember doing it.   
  
Maybe she didn’t?   
  
‘Molly…not yet. Not like this.’  
  
Laying ravished under Irene, Molly feels foolish and vulnerable. Used, even, and painfully aroused.  
  
‘Like what?’  
  
Irene shakes her head, looking pained. Perhaps it was too soon? It can hardly, she thinks, have been a week since Kate…  
  
‘I’m still in rather a lot of danger, Molly. If you turn out to be… well, I’d rather not put you into danger too. So soon.’  
  
Molly shakes her head, numb with pain. She can’t leave. Not like this. Not after this. She can’t. She wanted Irene and the danger. Well, she wasn’t John, she didn’t long for the danger. But she’d take it. If she had to. For Irene.  
  
‘Don’t leave…please. I don’t care about the danger, really.’  
  
Irene extracts herself from Molly, an apology in her eyes. From the lounge, Molly cries silently as Irene packs away her clothes, preparing to leave. Eventually she is ready, hair combed and lipstick fixed. As if they had never kissed.  
  
‘Don’t. Irene, don’t.’  
  
The words catch in her throat.   
  
Slowly, Irene comes over to her. She places the her own expensive coat over Mollys shoulders, leans down and kisses her softly on the head.  
  
‘I’ll see you again soon, I promise.’  
  
The door closes and Molly begins to sob. 


	7. Jim From IT

A week passes.   
  
Molly hates the clothes Irene brought her now. She still wears them out of a feeling of guilt (all that money!) but every time she looks at herself, she is reminded of her loss. She checks her phone constantly, but nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
Sherlock asks if she’s sick, clearly wanting an explanation as to her sudden weight loss. Realising she needs to take care of herself, Molly tries to eat more. The idea of somebody finding out now is doubly awful; I had Irene, and then I lost her. Molly tries to resist the impulse to stalk Irenes twitter.  
  
Another man from work asks her out and she denies. Shame- if he had asked merely a few weeks before she would have been both flattered and happy to accept. Now, the idea of kissing a man seems unpleasant. She doesn’t think she’s a lesbian, not really. Bisexual, she thinks, and still pining for Irene.  
  
She isn’t heartbroken though, merely sad and shocked. Betrayed and upset, but not broken. This knowledge gets her through the days. Though sleeping and dreaming of Irenes lips on her neck, it’s hard to deny the pain. The pining.  
  
Jim begins to sit with her every lunch. They chat about his new boyfriend Sebastian, and she is coy about her own love life. He winks at her knowingly, and she wonders if he knows she’s fallen for a woman. Can he tell? Is his gay-dar that strong?  
  
‘You’ve been such a wonderful friend to me Jim, really. I’m glad we still talk.’  
  
‘Me too, me too! You’re lovely. We should have a movie night, I miss Toby.’  
  
Molly smiles, considering it. It could be a wonderful distraction from Irene, though the idea of bringing anyone else into her home at the moment is strange. Would Jim be able to tell right away?  
  
‘Bring Sebastian?’  
  
‘Can’t, he’s working. But could we? We could watch the new ABBA movie…’  
  
‘Ok. Fine. Tonight, at eight?’  
  
Jim beams, brown eyes bright.  
  
\---  
  
When he arrives, the first thing he does is walk around her house in silence. This is so unlike Jim that Molly falls silent, watching his slow progress from room to room. He looks different somehow. Carries himself differently. He even goes through her wardrobe.  
  
‘Gosh, Molly. But will you look at these clothes! They must have cost a small fortune. Which is funny…’  
  
Jim leans against her bedroom door, his eyes level and cold.  
  
‘You don’t have a small fortune.’  
  
Something feels off. Very, badly off. This isn’t the happy Jim who watches Glee. This is someone else, someone she has never met, with angry dark eyes and a sneer. Even his clothes are strange, she realises. They are not the loose, cheap clothes Sherlock had mocked previously. He is dressed in a way that reminds her, awfully, of Irene.  
  
‘Jim…are you ok? You seem-‘  
  
‘Different, I know. How do you like it? The real me?’  
  
‘The real-?’  
  
Jim smiles at her and she recoils. It is an insane smile that distorts his features, emphasises his cold eyes.  
  
‘Meet Sebastian, Molly.’  
  
He points toward her stomach, and Molly looks down instinctively. A bright red dot is hovering over her. Someone is aiming a gun.  
  
‘This isn’t funny, Jim. If this is a joke it’s really…’  
  
Mollys voice fades into nothing because this isn’t a joke. She can see it in him now, how deadly serious he is.  
  
‘So how does boring, average, pathetic Molly Hooper get to own such nice clothes?’ Jim asks, taking a step forward.  
  
‘A friend gave them to me-‘  
  
‘Don’t lie to me. It’ll be the last thing you do if you lie to me.’  
  
So she won’t lie, then. Easy. She’ll say nothing.  
  
‘Was it your girlfriend, Molly? I never saw you as a lesbian…’  
  
Ignore him. Ignore the sweat forming on her chest, down her back.  
  
‘I know what kind of shops Irene likes. If you’re hiding her, you should really tell me. I could search, but that wastes time. And a bullet in the stomach is a slow way to die.’  
  
‘Who are you?’  
  
‘Jim! From IT!’  
  
For a moment Jim from IT is back. His open smile. Cheeky eyes. Then he is gone again. It’s like watching an actor become a character- only now does she realise that she’s only ever known the character.  
  
‘Jim Moriarty. Consulting criminal. I got rid of Kate and I can get rid of you too… do you think Irene would like that?’  
  
Molly knows she is shaking. He knows too much. Far too much.  
  
‘You’re too late. She left. She knew she wasn’t safe here.’  
  
Jim swears under his breath, and Molly feels a small flame of satisfaction.  
  
‘Well, Molly. We’ll be keeping an eye on you. Just in case Irene drops in again.’  
  
He walks past her, blowing her a kiss. She doesn’t dare move, knowing the glowing red dot is still pressed into her stomach.  
  
When her front door closes, the light vanishes. Molly staggers into the wall, trying not to hyperventilate.  
  
 _What the fuck did you get yourself into, Irene?  
  
—-  
  
 _Discovering that her kind, gay ex boyfriend is in fact an insane criminal doesn’t do wonders for Mollys mental health. She takes the next day off work, getting darker curtains for the windows and changing the locks.  
  
If he is a criminal, Sherlock probably knows him. Sherlock could help her, or at least tell her what to expect. But would Sherlock listen to her?  
  
She calls him, and John answers.  
  
‘Molly! Er. How are you? Good?’  
  
‘No…I don’t think I am.’  
  
‘What happened?’  
  
‘Moriarty.’  
  
‘We’ll be there in ten minutes.’  
  
Sherlock and John arrive in nine minutes, and the moment he is inside her house, Sherlock swears loudly. Both she and John look at him, utterly nonplussed by the outburst.    
  
‘How long did Irene stay with you, Molly?’  
  
John splutters in shock, but Molly merely smiles. At last, the great Sherlock Holmes has discovered her secret.  
  
‘Less than a month. She left because she wasn’t safe. Then… Jim turned up. He has the place under watch.’  
  
‘Does he now?’ Sherlock sounds deeply satisfied. ‘Well, that makes both him and my brother then. There isn’t much you personally can do about a man like that, Molly. But I will do my best. And if you see Irene, tell her I said…hello.’  
  
—-  
  
She sees Irene the next day.  
  
It’s lunchtime, and she has no desire to sit at her usual table. Jim has stopped coming to work, but she doesn’t want to be reminded of their friendship as she tries to eat. John had informed her that Jim had, in fact, never worked in IT, though he was good with computers.   
  
Feeling depressed, she heads to a different table when her phone vibrates in her pocket.  
  
 _International Towel Day. Come celebrate with me?_  
 _I.A_  
  
For a split second, Molly thinks she has actually gone mad. Then understanding hits her, and she drops her lunch on the floor, racing towards the elevator. Pushes the buttons, swearing, running on the spot. The old storeroom is on the top floor, and it is filled with towels. It’s never used, and has never been called anything other than the Towel Room. A running joke within Barts is being ‘sent to the towel room’ when you are fired. The elevator doors open and she jumps in, upsetting an old cleaner and his mop and bucket. She ignores his swearing, bouncing on the balls of her feet as the elevator rises. When it comes to a stop, she pushes the door open and runs.  
Molly bursts through the door, dust exploding through the air around her. A blonde woman in jeans and a white shirt is sitting on a desk, by a grimy window. Molly beams, not fooled for a second.  
  
‘Irene.’  
  
‘Molly.’  
  
Irene smiles, and Molly rushes forward, pulling her into a tight hug and then letting go quickly, blushing.  
  
‘It’s…nice to see you. Blonde.’  
  
‘It’s a wig, I didn’t dye it. But how are you? I got a text from Sherlock…’  
  
She sounds worried, and the smile is strained. Clearly, Sherlock has told her what happened.  
  
‘I’m ok, Irene. Really.’  
  
Irene shakes her head, looking away. A muscle in her jaw twitches, and Molly winces internally. Clearly, the stress is affecting her. It isn’t hard to imagine that extended contact with Jim would, in fact, cause massive stress.  
  
Slowly, Molly reaches out and lets her fingers connect with Irenes jawline. Keeping the contact light, she lets her fingers curl under Irenes chin, turning her face so their eyes meet.   
  
‘I knew something like this would happen. I knew it and I did it anyway. You should hate me.’  
  
‘I don’t hate you.’  
  
Molly leans towards Irene, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. She looks more beautiful than ever in this pearly, dusty light.  
  
‘I missed you, Irene…’  
  
Irene nods. ‘I knew you would.’  
  
‘Did you miss me too?’  
  
Hesitation. Yes. No. I didn’t, but I should have. Or I did, but I shouldn’t have.  
  
Not answering, Irene leans to Molly, this time kissing her properly, closing her eyes. Her hand finds Mollys and holds it tight. Her fingers are cold. I missed you. But she doesn’t say it, only kisses it into Molly, who holds her back.  
  
‘I don’t want you to go home tonight, Molly.’  
  
The words take her by surprise. Irene may have the saddest eyes she has ever seen, but her voice remains a skilled actor. She sounds sure and calm. Seductive, even.  
‘Where do you want me to go? Your house?’  
  
Irene laughs, a proper laugh this time, and Molly relaxes a little bit.  
  
‘I don’t live in my house at the moment. It’s hardly safe. But we can go back to my hotel room…if you like?’  
  
Molly looks at Irene, her soft hair and expressive eyes. She drinks her in.  
  
‘I’d like that a lot.’  


	8. A Good Student

When Molly finishes work, she could almost sing for joy.

She rushes down he steps, ignoring the stares from her co-workers and hailing a taxi. Rain is pouring and the streets a grey and slippery, but Molly can’t contain her smile. Giving the directions to the hotel, she almost laughs aloud. 

She is being driven toward a hotel and in that hotel, Irene is waiting for her.

What could be better?

 

Well, things could be better. They are being tracked down by a criminal mastermind, and they have to meet in secret, but… Well, Molly decides, even so, this is far more fun than any of her previous dates.

When they pull up, Molly is a little surprised. Knowing Irene, she had been expecting somewhere far more flashy. 

Throwing that thought aside, she climbs out of the cab and pays the driver. Coming to the front desk (the girl in charge has purple hair and chewing gum) Molly asks for Lydia Rogers.

‘Room Thirteen, she said she was expecting someone. Go on up then.’

Making her way up the steps, Molly is again struck by the thought that Irene could have chosen a much nicer hotel. The carpet is worn and stained, and paint peels from the doors.

She comes to room thirteen and knocks, twice fast then once, slow. It feels like she’s stepped into a spy movie.

Irene opens the door and pulls her in, glancing down the hall before closing the door.

‘Sorry the hotels a little bit… three star. But darling Jim will be looking through the expensive hotels first.’

Molly nods, understanding. There are only four rooms and all of them are small, but she hardly minds. She is with Irene and that is quite enough after the past few weeks.  
As if reading her mind, Irene reaches for Molly, pulling her into a hug. They stand together in the small, musty room and breathe each other.

Then they begin to kiss, and right away Molly feels a buzz of excitement begin in her stomach. The kiss deepens, wets her. She bites at Irenes lip and loves the way Irene clutches at her.

Molly is determined that this time, she will be the one to strip Irene, not the other way around. She might dominate every client. But she won’t stop Molly taking her clothes off. 

As if knowing Molly has set her mind on this, Irene brakes the kiss, letting Molly take her time over each button. The shirt doesn’t look expensive. Perhaps this one isn’t- but it probably is. She doesn’t care. All she knows is that the way Irenes breasts swell in her bra each time she inhales almost kills her on the spot. The simple human action- breathing- and the result- the swell of her chest- mesmerises Molly. She spends so long working with dead bodies, she had almost forgotten the charms of the living.

Slowly, she undoes Irenes bra. It falls to the floor. The air is cold and Irenes nipples have reacted accordingly. Molly lets her finger run around the pink of her nipple, relishing the reaction of the flesh. Irene is breathing faster, the slow burn of arousal evident.

Not rushing, Molly leans, letting a cold hard nipple fall into her mouth. Irene sighs, putting a hand on the back of Mollys head, twining into her hair. She tastes it, sucks on it. Releases it and moves onto the second nipple. 

Irene lets out a whine of frustration and Molly smiles. She can’t be used to being teased. It must be a fairly long time since someone really made her wait.  
She stands upright again, kissing Irene on her open mouth. Not wanting to wait any longer, Irene rips at Mollys shirt. The rip of the fabric sounds out of place against the backdrop of human noises.

They do not speak. Molly feels Irene remove her bra, fast and sure. It joins Irenes on the ground and they walk backwards, towards the bed, leaving a trail of clothing in their wake. Irene runs her nails down the length of Mollys back and she gasps, feeling her arousal burn. They kiss again, mashing their lips together, tongues massaging, eyes closed.

Irene throws her backward onto the bed. For a moment, in free-fall, Molly feels her stomach lurch in fear. Like in a failed trust exercise, her partner has stopped paying attention and she has crashed to the floor.

It lasts merely a second, because the mattress rushes to meet her, and then Irene crashes onto her. She feels her own almost-naked body against Irene and hears herself moan aloud. Pressed into the bed now, Molly is covered in kisses. She wears only her underpants and they are probably soaked through. Never in her memory has she wanted someone this much.

A kiss on her neck, then her collar bone. Suction on her nipple, and she arches into the contact, eyes half closed, the world hazy. Nails run down her waist, riding her curves. Then strong fingers come to grip her hips. Holding on.

Molly realises what is coming. A kiss to her ankle. Butterfly soft kisses up her inner leg, inside her knee, deepening as they progress up her thigh. She closes her eyes, hands reaching to find Irenes head, hold her, grip the soft hair in her fingers.

Then-

She feels Irenes tongue, wet against her, opening her apart. Tasting her in long strokes, leaning into her. Molly lets out a noise she didn’t know she could make, pushing her hips up into Irenes face, asking without words. Irene complies, gripping her hips, pulling her so close. Her lips press into Molly, open her and tease her inside, building a rhythm inside her.

‘Please- please- don’t stop that- fuck, Irene, I’m-‘

Molly looses the words as the room dissolves, shrinks into an isolated point of extreme pleasure. She could be screaming and she wouldn’t know it, all she can feel is the release, and she holds onto Irene like her life depends on it.

Slowly, she sinks back into the bed, her relaxing into her skin. Part of her wishes she had lasted longer. Part of her think it won’t matter, because they can do it over and over again for as long as they want. Irene leans on her stomach, rubbing circles into her skin, looking very pleased with herself. Molly lets out a shaky laugh, pushing her sweaty hair away from her face.

‘That was… wow. Ok. That was… fucking amazing.’

Irene beams, though she’s probably heard it a million times before. Perhaps the thought should bother Molly. But it can’t. She knows what this is.

‘Could I learn how to do that?’ she asks.

‘Oh, a student? Molly, I just love to teach…’

Irene moves up the bed (which Molly now feels unspeakably fond of) and presses their lips together. They smile into each other, limbs soft and pliant.

Eventually, after some whispered words, Irene takes Mollys hand. Guides Mollys fingers over her stomach, around her belly button, then down to the meeting of the thighs.

‘Start slow. Make it a tease. Explore, make me want it.’

Molly nods, unsure exactly what to expect. She has never done this to another woman before. To cover her nerves, she kisses Irene, distracting her for a moment as her fingers part and explore the wet heat of Irene.

She massages, opening and knowing each new texture. Irene breaths hard, eyes dark. They cannot look away from each other, so Molly is working blind. It’s worth it. Worth it to see the shifting expression on Irenes face, the way her eyes darken, the way she bites down on her bottom lip.

‘Now… go deeper. Find a pleasure point. Work with it.’

‘Like this…?’ Molly lets herself explore Irenes entrance, then, slowly slips herself in. Pressing her finger up against the inner wall of Irene, feeling the texture and throb of her against her skin.

Remembering what usually works for her, Molly gently curls her finger within Irene, who lets out a yelp, grinding her hips forward into Molly.

‘Yes, exactly like that. Fuck!’

She closes her eyes, pushing herself forward into Molly, gripping her, mouth open to let involuntary noises of arousal out. Rides Mollys hand, and Molly matches the tempo Irene sets. Her wrist aches, but Molly ignores it. She wants to see Irenes face as she comes undone. Wants to see the sweat as if forms on her skin. With a extended moan, Irene comes to a shuddering rest against Mollys shoulder. 

‘You make a really good student…’

Irene sounds breathless, and Molly grins. Their hair is a mess, the sheets ruined. Pulling her close, Irene plants a soft kiss on Mollys cheek. The night is setting in, darkness beginning to touch their skin. One skin, it seems to Molly, the two of them moulded into a single being. 

Then her phone rings.

‘Shit…’

She closes her eyes, trying to make the sound go away. Please go away. Not now. Any other time.

‘Answer it, might be important.’

Already angry with whoever decided to call her now of all times, Molly picks up the phone.

‘Hello? What?’

‘Oh, Molly, thank god. It’s John. Where are you?’

‘With Irene…’

‘Fuck that’s good to hear. She’s safe, Sherlock, she’s with Irene. God, when you weren’t at home I almost had a heart attack.’

‘Why?’ Molly sits up now, focused on the conversation, feeling the concern in Irene laying beside her.

‘Well… your house. Moriarty sort of…Well. Are you sitting down?’

‘Yes. Just tell me. John?’

John hesitates, and Molly can hear sirens in the background, Sherlock shouting at somebody. Her hand is shaking.

‘It burnt down.’

‘What!?’

Irene sits up next to her, holding her hand. 

‘What do you mean blew it- it- burnt down!’

‘As a warning to Irene, I think… he thought you would be there…’

The world has lost its reality. Irene seems very far away, then very close. Breathe, Molly. Calm. What does she have to know?

‘Is Toby ok?’

‘Yes, broken leg but nothing serious.’

‘Ok. Thank god… what the hell am I going to do, John?’

For a moment there is silence. Irene is holding her tight, worry written into every part of her face. Molly shakes her head, don’t ask me now. Not yet.

‘Umm… come to 221b. We can sort something out. Bring Irene, if you like. I’ve got to go, Sherlocks had an idea. But can you be there?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, hanging up on Molly. In the dark, Irene rubs circles into her skin, not wanting to ask but burning to know. With a sigh that is going to be a sob, she grabs onto Irenes hand and holds it tight.

‘We’ve got to go to Sherlocks house. They’ve set fire to mine.’

Irene lets out an characteristic noise of pain and shock, pulling Molly into her arms and holding her tight, rocking her.

‘I’m so sorry Molly. I’m so sorry…’

Molly shakes her head, feeling a lump in her throat.

‘I missed you while I was gone, Molly. Even though I shouldn’t.’

The words are so quiet Molly could have imagined them, but she smiles, kissing Irene in the dark. For a few moments longer they stay together, naked and content to just hold on.

‘Come on,’ sighs Molly eventually. ‘I guess we better get a move on.’


	9. Video Evidence

Molly and Irene arrive at 221b before Sherlock and John do. Neither of them have keys, so they brake in. Molly gets the feeling Irene has gone this before, but she decides not to ask.   
  
Once in the living room, Irene sits down on Sherlocks chair. Clearly she wants to assert her dominance by taking his favourite chair. In any other situation, Molly would be amused. But not now. Molly cannot sit. She is too stressed, tired, overwhelmed.  
  
‘Sit on my lap and stop stressing, Molly.’  
  
She is in no position to argue, or to deny a request like that, so she curls up on Irenes lap, letting Irene play with her hair.   
  
‘All the clothes you got me…’  
  
‘Can be replaced. Don’t worry about it.’  
  
Molly tries not to worry, she really does. She looks at Sherlocks dressing gown, and realises she no longer wants anything other than friendship from him. She has fallen out of love with him completely. Must have done a lone while ago. The skull smiles at her, and below the fire is mesmerising, the dancing flames warming her. Sleep.   
  
Sleep would be nice…  
  
Downstairs, the door opens, and two sets of feet begin to run up the stairs. No sleep for her, then.  
  
Sherlock and John turn into the living room then pause in surprise. Clearly they hadn’t expected to find them inside, or cuddling.  
  
‘You took my chair,’ says Sherlock, blankly. Irene merely chuckles.  
  
‘So…,’ John takes in their cosy position, and decides not to pry. At first, Molly thought John was a prude, but now she knows different. He holds privacy in high regard.  
  
‘The damage to your house is extensive, but hasn’t destroyed everything. Some personal or practical items have been recovered already. Lestrade is there, pointless, we already know who did it…’  
  
Sherlock trails off, looking at the skull. Molly gets the feeling that he was in fact talking to the skull, and not any of them. John obviously hasn’t noticed anything unusual, so this is probably typical Sherlock behaviour.  
  
‘Oh, and congratulations, by the way,’ Sherlock adds, motioning towards them without looking at them. Molly blushes. He probably knows exactly what happened at the hotel…  
  
‘And you too, Sherlock. When shall you become public?’  
  
John lets out a tiny yelp of surprise, and Sherlock shoots Irene an angry, calculating look.  
  
‘How did you know?’  
  
‘Easy. This is your house, after all. You can’t hide all the signs from me in your own home.’  
  
Sherlock lets out a disgruntled huff, turning away from them both. Unfortunately, Molly has no idea what is happening. The dynamic between Irene and Sherlock is so fascinating to watch she almost forgets to ask.  
  
‘Wait, what?’  
  
Irene laughs, and nods towards John. As Molly watches, the doctor shifts, blushes, glances at Sherlock then looks away fast. Too fast. Molly can’t help but leap to her feet, pointing between them in delight.  
  
‘I knew it! I just knew it! About damn time!’  
  
Even Sherlock manages a smile.  
  
‘So much for sentiment being the ruin of human kind, Sherlock. You and John. Irene and, well, me. Even Jim had that Sebastian guy-‘  
  
‘What?’  
  
Sherlock is in her face in under a second, holding her shoulders tight.   
  
‘What did you say?’  
  
‘W-When he was being Jim from IT he said he had a boyfriend. Called Sebastian. When he turned up at my house later, he said his boyfriend was the sniper, so… Sebastian was the sniper, I thought. Unless that was app part of the act.’  
  
A look of almost orgasmic delight erupts on Sherlocks features. He throws his arms in the air, then grabs her and kisses her on the cheek.  
  
None of them move, too stunned to know what exactly to say next.  
  
‘Oh Molly. Sentiment may yet prove to be the end of all man kind.’  
  
—-  
  
Irene is good with a gun, and Molly knows her bodies. As such, they are now part of the grand plan. The aim: not to kill Jim Moriarty, but to make him become Jim from IT. To let Sherlock win.   
  
To do this involves laying their hands on perhaps the most skilled sniper the world has ever seen. To say Molly was nervous would be an understatement, but Irene seems strangely calm.   
  
‘You seem very casual about Sebastian, you know.’   
  
‘Do I? Maybe you’re just very nervous.’  
  
‘I’m not as used to this kind of…leg work as you.’  
  
Irene smiles, looking up from her computer. They are still in 221b, and will stay there until it’s safe to be elsewhere. It’s obvious to Molly that guns and tricky situations are nothing new to her.  
  
‘I guess I do have a history of getting myself into strange situations.’  
  
‘Like?’   
  
Irene is smiling to herself now, reminiscing.  
  
‘Almost beheaded by a terrorist cell. Sherlock helped me out that time. One client kidnapped me. Didn’t end well for them, I must say. And had to fly a plane once, it was crashing and I was the only person on board who spoke Russian…’  
  
 Before Molly can comment on this, Irenes phone rings.   
  
‘It’s Sherlock. Lets go.’  
  
—-  
  
According to Sherlock, Sebastian has been living with Jim for about nine months. During this time, he developed a habit: leaving the flat in a bad temper, going to the gym for hours, then returning in a better mood.  
  
It reminds Molly of John.  
  
Obviously living with Jim was taking a strain on the otherwise untouchable sniper. Molly doesn’t blame the man- Jims hardly the domestic sort. She can’t even imagine what Jim keeps in the fridge.  
  
However these visits to the gym are rare moments of distraction for Sebastian. Normally he is alert, disconnected to the wider world, ready to pull and aim at any moment. In these moments of rage, his guard is down.  
  
Irene and Molly wait outside the gym. According to Sherlock, he will arrive in about four minutes. The tranquillizer gun is small, held in Irenes gloved hand. It is quite a distance to shoot from, but Irene is confident.  
  
‘You know, I never found out exactly how you got on the wrong side of Jim.’  
  
Irene doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Waiting. They need Sebastian, or else the whole plan goes to shit.  
  
Realising Irene isn’t going to answer, Molly leans back in the car seat. Her job is to make Sebastian look dead, once they have him. And to drive the car. Irene can drive, but she never bothered to get her licence. The last thing they need is to be pulled over.  
  
‘Here he is…’  
  
Irene takes aim, and Molly just stares. He is blonde, and even from this distance she can hell he is covered in muscles.  
  
The gun is silent and the blue dark hits him in the chest. Sebastian looks down at it, pulls it out, takes two more steps, then falls. Molly is driving before he even hits the ground.  
  
It takes both of them to haul him into the car. He must way more than both of them. Combined. He could be an amateur body builder.   
  
With Sebastian snoring in the back, Molly drives to the morgue. Thankfully she has a pass that’ll get her through the back door- she doesn’t fancy trying to explain the situation at the front desk.  
  
‘Get his gun, Irene.’  
  
Irene nods, patting him down. He has two guns, a large on in his jacket and a small silver pistol in his boot. Molly raises her eyebrows but says nothing. Then Irene finds a thin knife concealed in his other boot, and Molly can’t help but whistle. This is Sebastian off-guard?  
  
They pull up at the morgue and Molly rushes inside to grab a stretcher. There is no way they’d be able to carry him to a slab. Once he is on the frail medical bed, they wheel him toward a small room. Only one way out and no windows. Irene sets up the camera and takes out a box of make-up.  
  
Molly can’t help but smirk a little as she gets started. This is so morbid she is actually having fun, and going from the repressed giggle she hears from Irene, the feeling is shared.   
  
Sebastian is a deep sleeper, and though he is tied to the stretcher he doesn’t try to roll over or resist them in his sleep. His features are a mixture of handsome and harsh- soft lips but a sharp nose, ice blue eyes but feathery eyebrows.  
  
Making him look dead isn’t too hard. Once she has made the army tan into a death pallor, all she has to do is add shading (the start of decomposition and rigor mortis) and her work is done.  
  
Just in time.  
  
Irene gets a video call from Sherlock, and she accepts. On the screen, they see Sherlock and Moriarty, standing on top of the hospital. John is in the background, bombs strapped to his body.  
  
‘Hello girls. What do you have for us?’  
  
Sherlock sounds cheery, but no doubt the fact that John is in danger is killing him by pieces. He, like Irene, has a voice that never falters.    
  
‘Well I think we have the heart of Jim Moriarty. Would you like to confirm that for me?’  
  
Irene moves the phone over Sebastians face, and a scream of rage and despair comes from the phone. For a moment, Molly feels awful for Jim. This is the only person he cares about. This is Jims heart. And Sherlock has taken it. Or so he thinks.  
  
‘You got it wrong, Jim. I’ve burnt the heart out of you,’ says Sherlock, and then there is a loud crash and a shout from John. The call ends, and Irene sighs. If she is at all worried about what is happening to them, she hides it.  
  
‘Wake him up, Molly.’  
  
Hesitant (she fully expects to be punched in the face) she injects n with adrenaline. With a huge gasp, he opens his eyes. For a moment he looks at them in blank confusion, then screams in pure rage.  
  
They both jump, backing away fast.  
  
‘Where the fuck am I? Irene Adler, you whore! He’s been looking everywhere for you! What happened? You had Sherlock exactly where we wanted him and then you fuck off? And what is this? There had better be some fucking good explanation for this!’  
  
Having gotten the first wave of rage off his chest, Sebastian slumps onto the bed. In doing so, he gets a look at himself for the first time.  
  
‘Why the hell am I wearing fucking make-up!? Is this a sick fucking joke?’  
  
Molly can’t help but laugh. The macho army man demanding to know why he is wearing make-up is too much for her. Both he and Irene look at her in astonishment.  
  
‘Sorry, sorry…’  
  
Irene takes a few steps forward, using the fact she can stand over Sebastian to her advantage.  
  
‘Bad news, Sebby. Jim thinks you’re dead.’  
  
‘Excuse me?’  
  
‘The make-up. Molly works in this morgue. She’s made you look like a very dead body, and Sherlock just gave Jim video evidence of your demise. He didn’t take it well. So if I were you, I would untie yourself and go find him. Their at this hospital, but on the roof.’  
  
They leave, closing the door but not locking it. Already they can hear the sound of Sebastian untying his restraints. A taxi is waiting for him out the front, so he won’t waste any time in finding Jim.  
  
Job well done, Molly and Irene return to 221b to await results. 


	10. I Know

Sherlock loves telling the story. Even though most of them have heard it a hundred times (or else were with him when it happened) no one ever stops him telling it. The delight in his voice is obvious.  
  
‘So there I was on the roof, and Jim has done exactly as I predicted, flying into a deranged rage as his own words are used against him as I force him to admit to his own sentiment. So he runs towards the roof. Obviously he was going to jump, so I grabbed him and we both went over. I’m sorry about that, John. Can’t have been a nice thing to watch, but we were both quite unhurt, landing in the back of this sort of lorry truck thing. Good timing I must say. He broke my fall, so even if we hadn’t been lucky… And no sooner have we climbed out of the damn thing- Jim shouting and screaming all the while- than who should run around the corner but Sebastian Moran? Covered in make-up. Looks like a corpse running. And Jim throws up on my feet in shock. He’s been a broken man ever since, but I hear their quite happy together. Live in Sweden now. So… round of applause?’  
  
Molly, Irene, John and Lestrade all clap, though Irene and John are clapping in a slightly weary manner. He tells this story about once a month at least, and John probably hears it even more often.  
  
‘Yes, Sherlock. Three cheers. Now can we finish this game of Cluedo like adults, please?’

\---  
  
Molly and Irene have moved into Irenes house. It is white, posh and wonderful. Walking through it for the first time, Molly falls in love with the white pillars, the curved metal structures, the soft leather chairs and the space of it. Her flat, though cosy, lacks this space. In Irenes house, she feels like she could grow into a giant, unhindered by any ceiling.  
  
Though Irene has more than enough erotic paraphernalia to share between the two of them, but she buys seconds (or thirds or fourths) of everything for her and Molly. She wants everything they use to have its own history. Their history, and no body in-between.

—-  
  
She can’t see a thing. The world is black and soft against her eyes. All she feels is the silk of the blankets under her bare back, the delicious pinch of the nipple clamps, and the air against her stomach.  
  
Waiting for Irene to make her move.  
  
Nails rake down her stomach, and Molly sighs. A single soft finger brushes over her lips, hushing her. The  leather riding crop makes its way up the inside of her thigh, coming to rest against her wet groin.  
  
Moaning, Molly arches into the cold touch, trying to get more. Somewhere above her Irene laughs. Leans down and places an unexpected kiss on Mollys mouth.  
‘Want me to end it, Molly?’  
  
Nodding, whimpering, Molly tries to show Irene how much she needs it. But no words. She isn’t going to use any words. Let the body speak.  
  
The crop leaves her groin, coming to rest under her chin. Slowly, it runs down her neck, between her breasts, coming to a stop on her stomach. It begins a return journey, this time pausing between her breasts. It lifts off her skin, coming to press against the chain connecting her nipple clamps. Molly tosses her head to the side, moaning.  
  
At last, she feels Irenes lips press into her, and the tongue she has come to appreciate as a sort of sexual deity begins its work.   
  
—-  
  
Afterwards they are wrapped in sheets and each other, Molly gazing up at the ceiling and feeling dizzy with happiness.  
  
‘I wish I didn’t have to go to work. Somehow the dead bodies have lost their appeal, you know?’  
  
Irene smiles, rolling over to look at Molly. Her hair is messy, but her eyes are soft.  
  
‘What if I said I have a better offer for you?’  
  
‘Such as?’  
  
‘Well, as you know…I am in dire need of an assistant.’  
  
A slow delight expands in Mollys chest as she realises what this would mean for them. Moving in. Not having to spend so long apart. Getting to travel the world. Getting caught up in Irenes adventures.  
  
‘Accept?’  
  
‘Oh hell yes.’  
  
Irene smiles, kissing her on the nose.  
  
‘Good. Because I already handed in your resignation, so it would’ve been awkward if you’d gone back.’  
  
‘Conceited. What if I said no?’  
  
‘Then I would have been very sad. But you’re free to continue in that line of work again at any point you choose.’

'I will go back to it. Probably. After some adventures.'

'I can show you the world,' Irene sings.

Molly laughs, but Irene falls quiet. She rolls over, running her fingers down Mollys face, searching it for something. It makes Molly pensive, too, and she thinks back to their early days together.  
  
‘You never did answer my question, you know.’  
  
‘What question?’  
  
‘You asked me why I picked you. I said if you thought about it, you’d work it out. Did you ever work it out?’  
  
Molly knows that her answer is very important. May, in fact, be one of the most important things she ever says.  
  
‘Because you love me, Irene. If you're ying I'm yang. I'll be the Tweedledum to your Tweedledee. You love me.’  
‘I do?’  
  
‘I know you do. Don’t worry, you don’t have to say it if you don’t want to. It’s enough that I know.’  
  
Irenes eyes are wide, and again Molly is struck by how beautiful she is. Will this ever wear off? She wonders, will there ever be a time where the mess of soft hair and cheekbones doesn’t effect her heart like this?  
  
‘I love you, Molly.’  
  
‘I know.'  
  
They smile in unison, and Molly can tell that Irene is going to sleep soon. Drift away into a dream and hold Molly close as she walks through the landscape of her mind.  
Molly isn’t tired though.   
  
She has too much to look forward too. 


End file.
